But this was little. Imperceptibly, step by step, Mme. Sadikova poisoned all Basmanof’s most holy recollections. By her hints she discrowned all the most beautiful facts of the past. She gave him to understand that much of what had appeared to him as evidence of her self-forgetful love had been only hypocrisy and make-believe.
“Elizavieta!” implored Basmanof once of her. “Is it possible for me to believe that your passionate vows, your sobs, your despair, when you threw yourself unconscious on the floor—that all this was feigned? The most talented dramatic actress could not act so well. You are defaming yourself.”
Mme. Sadikova, answering to the name of Elizavieta, as she had been doing for some time, said with a smile—
“How can one distinguish where acting ends and sincerity begins? I wanted at that time to feel strongly and so I allowed myself to pretend to be despairing and out of my senses. If in your place had been not you but some other, I should have acted just the same. And yet at that very moment it would have cost me nothing to overcome myself and not sob at all. Aren’t we all like that in life—actors—we don’t so much live as act the part of living?”
“That’s not true,” exclaimed Basmanof. “You say this because you do not know how Elizavieta loved. She would never have spoken so. You are only playing her part. It’s evident you are not she—you are Ekaterina.”
Mme. Sadikova laughed, and then said in a different tone—
“Just as you like, Peter Andreyevitch. I only played the part to please you. If you wish it I will become myself again, Ekaterina Vladimirovna Sadikova.”
“How can I know where you are real?” hissed Basmanof through his teeth.
He began to feel that he was going out of his mind. Fiction and reality for him had become confused. For some minutes he doubted who he was himself.
In the meantime Mme. Sadikova got up and proposed a walk and she again began to speak to him as Elizavieta.